The Boy Who Survived
by Madi Holmes
Summary: Doctor Who AU. In 1940, a boy survives wartorn London the only way he can. As the war progresses, The Doctor becomes a refuge of saftey. Reviews are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1

There was once a boy who died.

His body had woken him at dawn, the curtains betraying his eyes with an inch of sunlight.

His mother was nestled in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for his siblings- tea, toast, and orange slices. Later, he would remember those oranges- that bitter sweetness of warmth. He had devoured them that first time, eaten them without care or thought. Weeks, months later, he replayed that scene. Better controlling his memories, his imagination, he slowed down the chewing, the stickiness over his mouth, fingers, chin; the backrub his mother had given him.

"Your grandfather died five years ago," she said solemnly. "He was a traveler. Africa, India. See the Maharajah and the Himalayas. I think you'll be a great explorer too. Someday."

He lived entire days in this one moment of time.

Stumping back to bed, he laid back down on the couch, tried to sleep. His back sweating, his chest freezing, he finally sat up, slipping on his shorts, jacket, mostly clean shirt, grubby shoes. His mother bade to hug him, but he slung her off, traipsing down the stairs, runging his knuckles against the banister, and skidded out into the alley. Tossing rocks against bricks and window wells, he ran this way, then that, following a trickle of water from the back of the shop out to the street. Loading leafs with pebbles- thin ones racing skiffs, larger ones great barges, he raced them down the gutter and into the drain.

He had played alone, shying from adults out enjoying the sun, became Robin Hood saving Nottingham Forest and the captured band of thieves from King John, visiting the library, the local Underground entrance, speeding through London in time with the sun.

He missed lunch that day, exploring thickets and warrens. His city. Women were out shopping, civil defense workers trooping around, watched as castles of sandbags being erected, soldiers and sailors enjoying leave, seeing homeless dragons out begging, huddled within their deep shadows. Finally growing hungry, he started back for his lunch. He had a few coins. Some won, some pilfered, but wanted to save them for times unknown.

Six blocks from his neighborhood, he heard them blare against the blue sky. The street instantly emptied, leaving him alone, slightly lost. Panicking, he started to run, his socks slipping down his ankles as he sped past each block, trying to find his own. Breathless, his heartbeat merged with the sirens in staccato throbbing. Across this din of noise, a heavy thrumming droned beneath.

Tearing white gashes against the atmosphere, planes streaked across, pluming down low beneath the buildings, arcing up to glint the sun. The boy stopped, mesmerized at the sine waves of planes dropping bombs. He instantly sped down another block, unable to find shelter, each one disappearing before he could reach it. Another plane swooped low, too close, and he was on the ground, hiding his head against murky cobble stones. He got up again and ran.

There it was. Against the white and red and orange of the day, he saw the blue box. He grabbed at the handle, the lock, tugging, pulling to be let in. Unable to open it, he looked around, desperate for a tool or rock to smash it open.

Rubble scattered the road, and he saw it, sticking out from a wooden shelf fragment. He pulled at the screw driver, the handle broken, gashing his palm and fingers. It finally gave, and he fell back. He instantly shoved the screwdriver into the lock and twisted. The door gave way, and he fell inside, sliding the door closed against the world. Lungs heaving, he plopped onto the stool, holding his chest, screwdriver against his stomach, keeping himself whole as the sky continued to light up through the shuttered windows. He closed his eyes, the dull sirens thudding in time with the shrieks.

"There was once," he whispered, "a man. A medical missionary. A doctor. And he travelled with his granddaughter and he showed her the world… the universe."

Hours passed as his mind raced. He was no longer there in his safety box, but beyond everything that could hurt him.

Slowly. The droning ended, the sirens' decibels declining as he emerged from his dreams, and came back to himself.

Inhaling, he finally looked around the police box. Stool, desk, telephone that didn't work, and a string with a single key hooked around a nail. He plucked at the thread and looped it around his neck. Protecting the key beneath his shirt, the metal was cold against his skin, but quickly became warm comfort. Pocketed the screwdriver, he finally left his refuge. He tested the key to the police box- found that the locking mechanism still worked, and quickly left for his home amid the rubble, random people-some unknowingly carrying tea cups, assessing the damage, fighting to out the fires.

Turning the corner of a blown out street- glass, metal bits, brick tumbled everywhere, his neighborhood had been untouched.

His mother greeted him on the sidewalk. She was covered in coal dust; his siblings grubby in dirt, he in ash and smoke, but all embraced as she escorted them all back inside.


	2. Chapter 2

His mother took to working alternating nights.

Driving through London in tin hat and skirts that soon gave way to her husband's trousers. Deciding that her son was old enough to at least be fitted for trousers himself, the two raided her father's trunk for material.

"You'll grow into them," she said quietly, looking at the garish plaid pants, neatly pinning seams and hems with straight pins.

He held them upagainst his waist, hugging the loose fabric so they wouldn't slip below his thighs as she worked. "Do I have to?" he asked plaintively, quietly begging.

Hunching back onto her feet, she eyed him, up and down, seeing the look of fear in his eyes. "No. Not yet." She finally decided. "You'll out grow in two months' time, and then I'll have to let them out again. No. Best to wait," She smiled as he exhaled deeply. "It was a different time- all men wore trousers just like these. Soon enough, you'll be wearing your own silly clothes that you'll think quite dashing… Here, while your father is gone, I'll show you how to tie a bow tie. When your father gets back, he'll teach you himself. But you mustn't let him know that he doesn't know how to tie one either." She slid her grandfather's tie around her own neck, and showed him the mechanics. Then she repeated it around his neck. "What is this?" She asked, pulling up the key around his neck.

"That's-" he faltered, reddened. "That's my good luck charm." He murmured, dropping it back under his nightshirt. "I found it," quickly trying to tie the bowtie.

One sibling sleepgrumbled as a bomb hit close by, then slid back into unconsciousness. They were all there, huddled in the basement. The young ones asleep on cots, one atop a table. His mother sat down on the trunk lip, tin hat holding a pincushion. She watched as he worked the tie, twisting, folding, tying. Three failed attempts before he finally got a lopsided result. They both laughed. She showed him once more, then let him practice on her. After his first successful time, he did it again on himself, finally getting both ends straight and horizontal. His mother beamed, her bottom lip slightly bitten between her teeth. "There you are. A proper young man now." She reached around, dug out an object and put it into his hands. "This was your grandfather's. He carried it all over the world. I remember mother telling me how he had taken it to the Serengeti. It was just him, and a tribe of Bushmen. They were quite savage, but he saved one of the chief's daughters after she broke her leg, and they were grateful. They ended up playing music throughout the entire night. He played one of their flutes, and won them all over. Made an honorary member of the tribe. Here. When you were born, he wanted you to have his watch when you were old enough."

He opened the velvet case, and held it up by the chain, timepiece dangling in the dim light of their lantern. "We'll keep it safe in the trunk," he finally replied, slipping it back into its pouch.

Another bomb burst, loudly, shaking the cellar, but quickly rumbled down. "I understand," she put it back into the trunk, lowering the lantern to its dimmest. "Let's try to get some rest," his mother said, brushing his forehead as she guided him to their cot. He lay there, next to her, as he fingered his key, trying to block out the din of sirens and buzzing drone.

He fell asleep, dreaming of being elsewere, in a different time with his father.

The German bomber had crash landed.

Bits of tail and wing scattered and charred across the street and park. He stared at it, couldn't leave. The wings had sheared off first, leaving only the body broken in two in the park. Somehow, the engines too had also cracked away and landed heavy beside the frame. It was completely burnt out, turning the greenish-brown paint grey, the paint bubbling up in the heat. He watched as boys threw rocks at it, breaking the last of the glass, denting the frame. They quickly scattered as a police officer arrived, and cordoned off the area.

He had been out for the raid, walking to his new school when the sirens went off. For hours, he had been escorted from shelter to shelter, the civil defense workers guiding them to each new basement and church. Growing tired of the stress, he finally broke from the group, and found a police box. He took out first his key, then the screwdriver, and jimmied the lock open. He huddled inside safe for another hour in the dank, dark cement, the droning lessening to noise as he escaped to another planet. After the all clear signal, he finally emerged again. Hours late for class, he decided to skip the rest of the day. Touring London, he came upon the fallen bomber, watching the engines continue to burn. They scared him, but he remained steady.

"Hey, kid!" Someone yelled at him, shook him back to himself, as he was yanked away to another block. "There are bombs on that plane, and you just stand there with your mouth open! Do you want to die? The Germans are trying to exterminate us, and you just stand there asking them to!" The man yelled at him, repeated angry, scared phrases. He looked at the older, grayish frumpy man who looked just as scared as he was, then felt his own resolve cracking. His chin trembled, but he held onto himself. He couldn't cry, he had to be strong. Then the man hugged him tight, protecting him from the world, and the two of them stood there. "Here, I'll walk you home." The man said, leading him away from the burned out bomber, returning him to his still undamaged neighborhood.


	3. Chapter 3

The German bomber crashed. Bits scattered and charred across the street and park.

He stared at it, couldn't leave. The wings had sheared off first, leaving the frame crumpled in the park. The engines cracked off and landed heavy beside the body, burning, turning green-brown paint to grey, the lacquer bubbling up in the heat. He watched as boys threw rocks and bricks at it, breaking the blistering glass, denting the frame. They quickly scattered as a police officer arrived, and cordoned off the area. He remained behind, watching it collapse amid dying flowers and yellowing trees.

He had been out for the raid, walking to his new school alone when the sirens went off. For hours, he was escorted from shelter to shelter, civil defense taking them to basements and churches. Tired of the stress, bored of the waiting, he finally broke from the group, and found a deserted police box. He took out first his key, then the screwdriver, and jimmied the lock open. He huddled inside safe for another hour in the dank, dark cement, the droning lessening to noise as he escaped to another planet.

After the all clear signal, he finally emerged again. Hours late for class, he decided to skip the rest of the day. Touring London, he came upon the fallen bomber, watching the engines burn lowly. They were terrifying, one propeller arcing in the heated air draft.

"Hey, Kid!" Someone yelled, shaking him back to himself as he was forced away to another block. "There are still bombs on that thing, and you just stand there with your mouth open! Do you want to die? The Germans are trying to exterminate us, and you just stand there helping them kill you!" A hatted man yelled at him, angry, scared. He looked at the grayish, frumpy man who looked just as scared as he suddenly became, felt his own resolve cracking. His chin trembled, but he held onto his emotions, his behavior. He couldn't cry, he had to be strong. Then the man hugged him tight, protecting him from the world, and the two of them stood there. "Here, I'll walk you home." The man said, leading him away from the park with the burned out bomber, and returned him to his still undamaged neighborhood.


	4. Chapter 4

His birthday came with a drought of sirens and bombing raids. Asleep the entire night, he woke up, stretched a bit, and guided the children up to the kitchen. His mother came home with a purple-bruising dawn, dropping her rusted boots by the door, and went to bed. He cheesed toast and poured milk for them all as she wished him a sleepy happy birthday, burrowing beneath the duvet on the couch.

Readying them for school, he shoe buckled, hatted, scarved, gloved, jacketed, lunched, and did a last minute bathroom check. "Buddy up," he ordered as he did every day, grabbing the two youngests' hands, and escorted them out to their new school. With three new streets blocked off during the night, they arrived late ten minutes, and listened as the teacher announced that two more students were no longer attending. He thought about skipping- to see the city again, to find anything useful, and inventory his boxes. His own present to himself, he thought, but went in anyway.

As always, school drags incredibly slow on a birthday. His was especially long and monotonous with only quick sing along before the bell rang.

Rushing back home, he went to the basement, and retrieved his watch. Clipping it to his inner jacket pocket, he went back up to the others, and found his mother making tea, preparing for their big night out. He'd been promised a movie for his birthday, and waited patiently as she tucked her trousers up beneath her longest skirt. Everyone ate quickly as she expertly flipped her helmet between elbow and torso. "Well, let's get moving. I bought the tickets earlier today. Heard it was going to sell out."

He smiled as he locked the door. Grabbing the youngests' hands, he found his mother's own already there. "Oh. Sorry." He responded, letting go of wrists.

"You can hold their hands if you want," she stated, letting go.

"No," he replied," You can do it. I don't mind." He looked down, away, fingering the screwdriver in his pocket.

They finally made it to the cinema in a world of grey. The sun was setting earlier, leaving the city in shadows and smoke. By the time they found their seats, the entire auditorium was full of children and adults.

The lights dimmed as sepia credits started. He zoned out as Dorothy ran, then walked, then mucked about on a farm, laughed as she fell stupidly into a pig pen. Then there he was- the professor of amazement and marvel. Promising adventures and meeting royalty and the future. He sat up, wanting to run away with him too and see such marvels. Then the horror of a tornado.

His younger brother grabbed his wrist, digging tiny nails into his skin.

"Oww! What!" He whispered in pain.

"Is she going to be shot down by the RAF?"

"HUH?"

"They said a typhoon was coming. Are we bombing America now?"

"…. No, it's a tornado. Like a big storm in America. It hits the middle parts. Michigan to Maine. All at once." Someone shushed him, and he slid down into his seat, his arm still smarting. His brother started to relax until Dorothy's family entered the cellar, debating on whether to leave the girl behind. The room instantly shifted as the girl was abandoned.

Dorothy kept running.

One child, then another in the audience began to cry. Then another as she pulled on the cellar doors, panicking, running for her bedroom.

The window suddenly exploded, and she collapsed on the bed, the house blown off the foundation. His own hands white knuckled the arm rests.

And then there was color.

Technicolor of greens and purples and pinks. Blues and violets. Colors he forgot that had existed. And then the singing started, and he just stopped.

He couldn't help it; he couldn't breathe for the next two hours of flinging apples, dancing lions and scarecrows and tinmen, poisonous flowers, evil witches, flying monkeys. He knew he was too old for such antics, that it was a kid's movie, but he was there. Beyond London.

And then there he was- the professor. Finally able to travel again with his great hot air balloon. To take to the sky and beyond, to see the stars and see distant planets and save Dorothy.

But then he was away. Off to explore these marvels without her.

Then the projector died and the lights came on. Everyone blinked back to reality as the manager emerged in a suit and tie, and escorted everyone to the nearest shelter. The music was so loud, the audience so much into that distant land, that the sirens had gone unheard.

As he travelled down to the Underground with his siblings, his mother found a corner, unpinned her trousers, and handed him her bundled skirt.

He wanted to go with her then. To save people and not have to watch the children, but he knew that he couldn't. He had to be there so she could work.

"Next week, maybe. I'll teach you to drive," she smiled, drifting into the crowd, unsure herself on how to fulfill the promise.

Down in their corner of the station, other children were playing and running through the crowd and reading books. He kept his siblings close, away from the tracks and away from the entrance. He had been in other stations in the past, but never alone with his siblings. Trying to distract them, himself, he somehow obtained some vegetables, tepid carrots, celery, and potatoes from a rheumy faced woman. Wiping them clean on the back of his shorts, he herded them closer to eat. Crunching his dinner loudly, he closed his eyes again, dreaming of color and pocket watches and saving the universe.


	5. Chapter 5

The dog bounced in and chaos ensued.

He had just gotten them settled for a nap when the door opened, and the dog- a wiry mutt sprung about, licking and tail wagging everyone with slobber and cold noses.

"Heel! HEEL!" A dopy brunette bounded in, followed by his mother, and chased the dog around their rooms. The children quickly turned it into a game, keeping the dog away from the adults until their mother snapped them into order.

The boy fretted at the mess, at the wound up kids, but secretly wanted to join in the fray and be a kid.

"This is Miss Sanjula Jaitley. We work together in the ambulance," his mother introduced, trying to keep the dog on the floor, "and this is our new canine partner- Markie. Sit!" the dog sat. Sort of. Its rear sat for one second, then bounced into his lap.

He giggled as the tongue licked his cheek clean and nibbled his ear.

"We're just here for a little while, Kiddo," she said. "Thought you'd like to meet the mutt."

"Can we keep him?" He asked, then cringed.

His mother grew quiet. "No. He is Miss Jaitley's dog. But he might be able to visit. Maybe we could be his foster family. Later on. He helps Sanjula and me so much on the ambulance."

"That's right!" Her friend laughed. "One time he brought me gauze to help wrap this woman's arm. Ever so helpful. A great soul, he is!"

"That wasn't helping: he was playing in the gauze and accidently drug some to you!" his mother laughed.

"Competent play is preferred over incompetent help," Sanjula intoned pithily.

"Don't give me that eastern religion nonsense," her partner giggled back, petting the dog. "You're no more a swami than I am."

"And how do you know I am not a secret Brahmin high priestess come to London to do my bit for the war and return to Benares once I have obtained enough good karma?" Her almond eyes sparkled, her back straight and proud. The boy suddenly heard distant music and bells and smelled curry and saw purple carpets and blue women in her stance.

"Because, O Little Friend of all the World," his mother grinned back, "I know you were born only two miles away from here- we were at the hospital last week. AND I might be wrong, but I'm pretty certain that Jews aren't Hindu high priestesses."

"Well, there is that," Sanjula laughed. The boy blinked, his dreams of genies and flying horses and large spiders instantly gone. The exotic woman he saw in veils and gold snapped back to being Miss Jaitley again.

"Oh my goodness! You've a little tin hat for Mark!" his sister yelped, digging into the woman's bag. "Can I put it on the puppy?" the children all clustered around the find before their mother could chastise the breach of etiquette. Soon, the dog was prancing about in his hat, showing off his working skills by digging around the rooms for hidden food scraps. The children then raided their mother's cookware and were all banging around wearing pots and pans atop their own heads.

The boy played the game a bit, but quickly grew bored, returning to the adults with the dog in his arms.

"And this is my eldest son, the good lad. I couldn't get through this without him. He's as much a father to the little ones as my husband. Patient and kind, he is," his mother beamed wistfully. "He's growing up so fast. Here, why not take Mark out for a walk. Just a small one, but be back before dark."

He was out the door before his mother could say anything else. They bounded down the stairs in twos and burst out into the world. The boy and dog ran and ran through the streets, past rubbled piles and puddles of water, the city already morphing into ancient Troy. The dog stopped to sniff twice, but carried on being a dog with the boy. They played fetch a few times, tossing wood scraps up and down the alleys and backways. Then the boy, breathless, led him to his box. He took out his key, ushered in the dog, proudly showed off his treasures (only one artifact nibbled on), and took the canine through the universe until far past dinner.

A month later, his mother brought a new Mark home with a more somber Sanjula. The children played with this one too; happy to be around a dog, unable to recognize the differences. But the boy could see the different markings and size, could sense a more doggedly passive spirit. He played along- that this was Mark too. And took this pup on a new adventure to an alien sun in his blue box.


End file.
